Happy Birthday
by Jaeh
Summary: Four times they ruined each other's birthday, and the one time they actually did something nice. What can you do, that's how brothers' usually are, right? Being siblings might be a bit different if you're a Holmes, but not /that/ different.
1. Chapter 1

This fic is insanely INSANELY late, but HAPPY BIRTHDAY (late) TINA 3 I hope you enjoy.

Also I still suck at summaries.

To all my readers, hi! I know that I haven't uploaded anything lately. Life has been... mad. Anyway, skipping that, thanks if you're still watching out for my stuff, and if not... er... well this is awkward oops.

Stupid joking aside, this has five chapters, and all of them are actually /done/, just needs a little editing and betaing. I'll have one or two chapters out per week. Or more, if they get edited sooner. Usual disclaimers apply :)

* * *

**H**appy Eighth Birthday, Mycroft Holmes.

That was clearly what was written on the cake in the centre of the room, done in an interesting jungle motif that Mycroft didn't choose, but was impressed by anyway. They knew that he had been into different flora and fauna this month, and so the jungle was a very welcome idea. It had chocolate animals that zipped across the cake, due to mechanisms that Mycroft had been trying to figure out for the first part of the morning since it came in. The vanilla and chocolate marble sponge was divine, and the fondant was hiding the best buttercream icing he had ever tasted. The chef had definitely outdone herself this time.

There was a smaller one to the left that welcomed Sherlock's first year into the world. It was very unremarkable compared to his. Of course it was—it was Sherlock's first birthday. It wasn't like the child would be able to appreciate a beautifully constructed cake like Mycroft's was. It was as it should be.

Those, however, were the cakes, and cakes usually go as planned because the Holmes's have the best baker/chef in the whole of Britain. The party, however, was a different story.

It had been explained to Mycroft that they would be having just one party this year for him and Sherlock, because of 'scheduling difficulties'. Mycroft was old enough to understand that that meant Mummy and Father were having problems with their relationship _again _and didn't want to be under public scrutiny any more than necessary until they had it fixed. Again. And again. And again. Mycroft was used to it, but this was the first time it had ever affected him directly.

He didn't like it. He didn't want to have the same party as Sherlock. Especially Sherlock's _first _birthday. He wasn't one for attention, but it was _his_birthday. Everyone wanted to see the new baby, the one-year-old, more than they wanted to see the eight-year-old child that they practically saw once every year anyway, sometimes even twice or thrice.

Sherlock stole _everything. _He took Mycroft's first stuffed toy, a Mickey Mouse his dad brought home from the United States. He took that fluffy pillow that Mycroft loved. His first blanket. His old cot.

It didn't matter if he was too old for them, or if he happily gave them away. They were still_ his_.

Sherlock also took Mummy's attention. Far too much. She was always there when his brother cried but _not_ when Mycroft was crying. Whenever Mycroft's been the one to take a spill under the beech tree while his brother cries for attention, the little one gets the attention, not him.

Mummy explained that he was old enough to take care of himself while Sherlock was just a little child who has a difficult time expressing himself because he was not yet a year old. Mycroft understood—of course he did, he was a bright child, brighter than most adults. He knew that Sherlock needed that extra bit of help, and that was fine. Sherlock was his little brother. He liked the little one, with his pudgy nose, eyes as blue as the sky when the sun just set, little arms and legs that reminds Mycroft of that baby doll that Mummy got him once to take care of. Something about the 'paternal' instinct, they said, and Mycroft had to look it up to understand what they meant.

It, quite honestly, helped him to learn how to take care of his little brother.

But that didn't _matter_, not right now at least, since it was his birthday and it was supposed to be_ his_ day but instead, Sherlock was there stealing everything_ again_.

And, of course, predictably, after everyone has cooed at the new baby, they went out into the foyer with his parents and everyone promptly forgot that the children existed. Mycroft was left alone with his brother, and he reluctantly pulled up a chair to sit by the cot.

"You're ruining everything you know," said Mycroft, staring into Sherlock's eyes, frowning. The baby met his eyes, and smiled. Sherlock barely made any noise nowadays, and to be honest, maybe Mycroft was a bit worried about it. But even if he'd read that babies usually babble at this point now, he knew that some of them took their time with talking, so he breathed easy while their nanny (and Mummy and Father, he supposed) worried constantly.

"It's my birthday celebration too, not just yours. But everyone has forgotten about me." Mycroft looked at the spinning aeroplanes and rockets at the top of Sherlock's cot, and wiped angrily at his eyes. He didn't want to cry. He was eight—he was too old to cry. Father said so. "I suppose, though, they have forgotten about you, too, because they're out there with their wine glasses having fun while we're stuck in the nursery."

For a second, he wondered how it would have been if he had friends his age. Maybe when he went off to boarding school. It was just a few years more. He had heard Mummy and Father talk about it.

"It's okay, though. At least you're here and my birthday's not as lonely as before. As much as Nana's okay company, it's nice that you're here, too." He placed a finger beside Sherlock's small hand, and Sherlock grabbed it in his little fist. "At least _you_ pay attention. Happy birthday, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled at Mycroft. Mycroft smiled back, and he turned away to grab the dog-sock puppet he made last week for his brother's birthday. His brother had giggled when Mycroft first showed him the puppet, and Mycroft repeatedly told him it was a dog, and made barking sounds as he played with his brother. Maybe at least one of them could be happier today.

"My."

Mycroft blinked, and turned slightly towards Sherlock, the puppet drooping on his hand. "Sherlock?"

"My! Mycof, dog!"

A huge smile broke out on Mycroft's face, and he kicked lightly at their snoring nanny's feet. "Nana!"

"Mmm?"

"Listen!" Mycroft gestured at Sherlock, and poked his brother's nose with the puppet. Sherlock laughed. "Sherlock, look at the doggy!"

"Mycof dog-gy! My!" Mycroft's grin widened. He'd always thought he'd get to hear Sherlock's first words, probably something about Mummy, but he didn't think it would be _his_ name.

Nana's eyes shone, and she bolted out the door to call Sherlock's parents for their child's first words. Mycroft tugged at the finger still trapped in Sherlock's palm, and grinned. He had to admit, this was one of the coolest presents that he had ever received.

* * *

A/N: Thanks to airamcg and Shwatsonlocked for beta-ing the first chapter. All mistakes are mine. More to come, thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

He was fourteen and back home for the holiday. His friends had visited because it was his birthday, and his family threw a 'small' bash by the pool to celebrate.

Piles of presents from both family and friends adorned a table somewhere on the other end of the garden, while various games and entertainment were set up across their huge yard. Picnic blankets and various sheeting were strewn across the garden for people to sit on and eat at, and the _hors d'œuvres _were on small tables found at every corner for the visitors to pick up their snacks.

His parents even hired a band—one of those loud, insolent things that he never had the taste for but listened to anyway since everyone does. No, not out of peer pressure, but simply out of the need to relate to everyone. It was important, to be able to relate to people, Mycroft had realised once he got into boarding school. You needed to be social —or at least, fake it well enough—to be tolerated by everyone_._ Also, if you want to get somewhere, you need to work well with people. It was something that he hoped to be able to teach his little brother someday.

Although, knowing his _petit frère_, it might never pan out. Sherlock had, what others might call, a "free spirit". Try as everyone might in the household, they couldn't quite contain the little ball of energy, or even, at the very least, direct it to something other than what he would like. Violin worked a little, but it simply wasn't enough to contain him. He was two years ahead of his home studies and was blazing through, but even his tutors were having a hard time catching up with him. He was, reportedly, a right terror, and they were yet to find someone who didn't want to quit after two months.

But he was young. Mycroft hoped he would grow out of it.

Speaking of Sherlock, he had not made an appearance yet for the past few hours. This concerned Mycroft greatly, since this usually meant that Sherlock was up to something. If there was anything that Sherlock liked, it was showing off one of his experiments, and it mattered not if it was appropriate or not. This party would have been quite an opportunity for him.

But his brother still wasn't there, so he waited with bated breath as the event rolled on. It was fine, though, as he was enjoying himself, even if the band's songs were a bit inane. They weren't _that_ bad, after all, and the songs were beginning to grow on him. Maybe it wouldn't be that bad, once Sherlock appeared.

Then came opening some of his gifts.

Really, he should have known better than to think it wouldn't be _that_ bad.

Halfway through the pile, Sherlock had appeared, running through the party with mud all over what should have been a pristine shirt and short-trousers, holding out what looked like a steel tray out in front of him. His whole entourage followed, from his tutor to the two sitters that were assigned to him.

Mycroft sighed, and glanced at everyone apologetically. Everyone else watched the dirty little child bound towards the birthday celebrant. As Sherlock grew closer, Mycroft could sort of see what the boy was carrying—it appeared to be a dissecting pan, and there seemed to be _something _on it.

Oh. Bloody. Hell. No.

Mycroft could only look on with horror as Sherlock weaved through the crowd, everyone scattering and leaning away in disgust from both the mud and whatever Sherlock was carrying. Mycroft cringed.

'Mycroft! Mycroft!' Sherlock screamed as he ran. 'Look! Look what I've got!' The child paused, and approached slowly. 'Why are you all red?'

'Just get on with it, Sherlock,' Mycroft said, gritting his teeth in a fake smile. 'Please.'

His brother smiled shyly at him, and held out the tray. 'Happy Birthday, Mycroft!'

He looked at the tray, and his face twisted into a mix of horror and maybe a bit of _pride_, but mostly embarrassment. He took the tray and put it aside, excused himself and Sherlock, and went behind the stage for a moment.

'Sherlock, get out of here —what the hell have you done?' he whispered, almost hissing. His mind tripped over what he'd read the other day on personality disorders, and his mouth just ran on with it, saying the first thing that came to mind when he saw the dead frog. 'You _sociopath_, for crying out loud—leave! You're ruining my party!'

Sherlock blinked at him, and looked back at the gift he proudly presented. Tears welled in his eyes, and his lips quivered. 'You didn't—You always like what I make, but—"'

'Just _leave_!'

Mycroft watched the two sitters hovering from a distance and nodded to them imperceptibly. Sherlock wiped at his eyes, mud streaking over his face. 'Sorry for ruining your birthday,' he mumbled and ran around toward the front door of the house.

Mycroft breathed deeply, plastered a rapidly devolving smile on his face, and stepped back onto the stage. As they say, the show must go on.

The party ended, and the gifts Mycroft had been given were brought to his room. It was only then Mycroft really looked at Sherlock's gift again.

It was a frog, neatly dissected, organs painstakingly labelled with bits of paper in 7-year-old handwriting. There was a small note at the bottom, saying 'Happy Birthday Mycroft! Look I learnt all the organs! Love, Sherlock'. It was smudged in places with mud, but the blue script was visible and clear.

Mycroft frowned. He really regretted what he'd done to Sherlock, but his brother needed to know that there was a time and a place for such displays. As everyone left, Mycroft had heard remarks among the guests on his weird brother, and Mycroft had to restrain from filleting their dignities using his weapon of words. They did not have the right to talk about his brother that way. He was only being very nice and actually _thoughtful_ about his gift. It was Sherlock's version of a macaroni artwork, and as ghastly as it might seem, it was very, _very_ good.

Mycroft called for a butler to pack Sherlock's handiwork away into one of the small fridges they had at home for such. He went to Sherlock's room and knocked politely. 'Sherlock?'

'Go away.'

'It's Mycroft.'

'Heard you. Go away.' There was a sniffle.

Mycroft sighed. 'Come on, Sherlock. I only wish to talk.'

'Go _away_, Mycroft.'

'Please?'

'Fine.' There was a slight click from the door, and Mycroft slowly entered.

Sherlock's room was a mess, with his toys strewn all over the floor, clothes everywhere like his wardrobe had exploded, and books piled haphazardly in a corner. At least, however, the bed was clean and clear, and Sherlock himself had been scrubbed clean of the mud he'd had on earlier. He was buried under his blanket, quivering a little. He'd obviously been crying—and might still be sobbing, even.

Mycroft was confused. Sherlock wasn't usually like this—he would normally have forgot why he was upset after an hour or so, engrossed in a new lesson, game, or minor experiment. What would have distressed Sherlock this much? He tiptoed around the floor, eventually making it to where his brother was.

'Sherlock?' Mycroft said softly, sitting on his brother's bed. 'I saw your gift. Thank you. It was well done.'

Red-rimmed eyes appeared from behind white sheets. 'You didn't like it. You were _very _angry and upset earlier.'

Mycroft smiled a bit, and scooted closer. 'Sherlock, the gifts that you make for me are very… special. And no one really understands how special they are—all they see is that it's very, _very_ odd.' He patted Sherlock on the head, and pulled down the sheet. Sherlock scowled at him, and pulled it back over his head. Mycroft sighed. 'It was really well done, you know. Even the spellings of the different organs were correct.'

'Really?'

'Really.'

'Thank you.' The sheet ruffled a little, showing that Sherlock had given as slight nod. He, however, didn't remove his sheet.

Mycroft frowned. 'Sherlock, will you please remove the sheet now?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Am I really a sociopath? I read in the encyclopaedia what it is. Do you really think that I'm a sociopath?' Mycroft winced. _Damn_, he shouldn't have said that. Of course Sherlock would have looked it up—he hadn't meant to say it, he just wanted Sherlock to leave for a bit until… Mycroft sighed, prepared to speak, but Sherlock babbled on. 'I didn't want to hurt the frog but I really wanted to learn about the organs—I even said sorry to it and my tutor said it was okay! Did I do something really bad? I didn't want to kill the frog—I'm really sorry!'

Mycroft sighed again, and leaned over and gave his little brother a hug, pulling the sheet off him. Sherlock struggled a bit. 'No, Sherlock, you're not a sociopath. I am sorry for saying what I said, I was upset because the guests would think that it was disgusting and uncouth, what you did then. You didn't look presentable, and you know that other people talk among themselves about things. It was… well, it was Not Good.'

His brother froze. 'Not Good? But I was merely showing—'

'Yes, but people have a funny way of thinking, remember? They do not think like us.'

Sherlock hiccupped a little. 'Okay. Not Good, then. But how would I know—'

'You can always ask. You can ask me, all right? It's fine. You didn't know. Don't worry about it.' Mycroft soothingly ran fingers through his brother's hair. He had to make it up to him, somehow, even if he knew he was already forgiven.

The next month, Sherlock received a new dissecting kit for his birthday, and a dissection book really meant for secondary students, with a note saying that he could only use it with the tutor and/or Mycroft present. It was the only thing Sherlock fiddled with for the entire month.

* * *

Thank you Shwatsonlocked and airamcg for beta work! More to come soon. (I think I might break my once a week promise and try to update earlier. Haha.)


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was twenty-one, and he was destroying himself. Mycroft was forced to watch, and there was nothing he could do to intervene, short of kidnapping his brother and forcibly having him go through a program. It wasn't as if that would work either—Sherlock was too stubborn, and his brother would escape within a month. So Mycroft simply stood by the side-lines. Very_, very_ reluctantly. He wanted to trust Sherlock, he really did—he wanted to trust his brother to resolve this on his own. He was brilliant. He was a _Holmes_, and that meant he could work out this problem on his own.

Mycroft hoped. He had hoped very much.

It was his birthday, and there was a small gathering in a café near the office to celebrate. As a budding government asset, it was imperative for him to know the people he'd be working with, and for them to know him as well. Running a government was a team effort, after all, even if he might end up handling most issues in the future.

It was well into the event, with people chatting, coming and going, just generally having a pleasant time. The café, with a bit of persuasion, managed to come up with a good range of spiked coffee drinks, and everyone was loosening up a bit. As much as they could, anyway—it still paid to be vigilant and careful. Gatherings like these were a possible hotbed for fishing secrets, Mycroft knew as much. There was another reason why he'd set it up.

A scruffy-looking kid in a hoodie stumbled into the café despite the huge 'closed for a private party' sign, and no one really noticed him until he'd shambled over to the microphone set up. He tapped the microphone, and the sound reverberated around the room. Everyone turned and stared. Mycroft did as well.

Ah, _merda_. _Per_ _l'amor di Dio, perché? _

Happy Birthday was sang like a funeral dirge. The kid's voice sounded a nice baritone, but it was interspersed with tiny chuckles. It sounded very… well, _odd_. "Happy Biiiirthday Big Brooother, Happy Birthday to yoooou!" The kid finished. "George Orwell will be so proud. Or appalled, most likely."

The whole party was quiet, not a single soul moving. Mycroft took slow breaths, made his way toward the microphone, and took the boy's sleeve, pulling him to the exit. "I shall take care of this, please enjoy yourselves."

The boy waved at the others enthusiastically, tipping his hands in mock salutes.

There were polite nods from the crowd, but no one spoke until Mycroft had dragged the hoodied boy outside. The sudden buzz of activity could be heard as the glass doors swung closed. Mycroft tugged on the boy's arm until they arrived at the alley beside the café, and he yanked down the boy's hood.

"Mycroft! Did you like my present?" Sherlock gestured. His words slurred together as he spoke faster than usual, and he looked like he was about to jump out of his skin. "I thought I sang well, better than everyone did when they give you that monstrosity of a cake. They shouldn't have, you have gone _fat_, much fatter than usual. Aren't you supposed to be on a diet?"

Sherlock grinned at him, eyes bloodshot, cheeks sunken more than usual. His pupils were dilated and clouded over. Sherlock gripped Mycroft's arm with a hand tightly, and winked at his brother. "Your tie feels wonderful," said Sherlock, running his fingers on Mycroft's tie. "Silk, isn't it? Feels wonderful on my fingers. Happy birthday brooother, I wanted to give you a gift but I didn't know what to get you. Aside from a personal appearance of course, which I knew you would appreciate dearly." His words tripped over themselves in a contemptuous sing-song, while he grinned widely. "You do so love your little brother don't you?"

"What are you doing, Sherlock? You're _high_!"

"Very, very very, like a kite, that kite you made me once that got tangled in that tree only _higher_." Sherlock mimicked a kite soaring to the sky with his hands. "It's fascinating, it feels brilliant… _amazing_! I feel like I could do anything—everything, and it's all so _sharp_ and I can _see everything_. It's wonderful, it's fantastic!"

Mycroft gripped his brother's wrist, and pulled it down to Sherlock's side. "What did you take, Sherlock?"

"Oh, does it matter, brother dear? I feel _wonderful._" A smile was plastered on Sherlock face. 'You worry too much."

"Of _course_ I worry, Sherlock. You are going to kill yourself," Mycroft said. "And I cannot stand by and simply _watch_ you destroy yourself. Do you know what drugs do to your mind? What did you take this time? Cocaine? Heroine? _Both_?"

Sherlock yanked his hand away, and stepped back from Mycroft. "Have you been _watching_ me? I had told you to leave me alone. Did you put up cameras in my flat... you did, you are watching, you are _always_ watching. This is why I never stay in my flats. Leave me alone. Stop watching me. It's none of your business what I _do_ with my life and you _made that clear_ when you—" Sherlock paused. He frantically looked behind Mycroft, almost knocking his brother over. He suddenly looked very nervous, eyes darting around. "What was that? Fuck. I need to go."

"Sherlock, wait!" Mycroft yelled, holding out a hand to his brother. Sherlock had already slipped away to the back of the alley. Paranoia had kicked in before Mycroft could even stop his brother from running again.

Something had to be done. This had to stop. Mycroft was done watching from the side-lines, and his newfound position has some advantages that he could use. That was, if this disastrous party had not derailed his career. He was still on the way up, and Sherlock might have jeopardised his job significantly, but... no. Sherlock needed his help. What happened at the party was a minor inconvenience, and with Sherlock showing up again Mycroft could finally have him followed again. After all, he cared for his brother so much. And he'd promised Mummy.

The next day, Sherlock was 'abducted' and brought to the Holmes' country home, which had all the personnel and tools Sherlock might need to recover.

He escaped a week later, but not before swearing incessantly at the cameras and screaming at Mycroft to leave him alone, that he could stop on his own, and he certainly did _not_ need Mycroft's help.

Mycroft sighed, and knocked down the brandy he was nursing. He couldn't help Sherlock any longer. He was climbing up the ranks in unseen positions of the British Government, yet he could not help his own family. It was… a terrible failure.

He needed to put someone in position to help Sherlock, since he could not do it himself. From then on, every person Sherlock met, Mycroft _made sure_ to do background checks on, and to question personally when needed. He would not fail his brother again.

Then Sherlock Holmes met Greg Lestrade, a week after his little brother's birthday.

Mycroft made sure that the Detective Inspector wouldn't turn his brother away.

* * *

No, I really have no idea how to curse or speak in Italian. All brought to you by google. Supposed meaning: 'Ah, shit. For the love of god, why?'

Thank you shwatsonlocked for beta-ing! 3 comments are most welcome. Only two more chapters to go! They're all lined up for betawork, so. :D


End file.
